


Immeasurable, Incalculable, Unbounded Love

by VJR22_6



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991)
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29435919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VJR22_6/pseuds/VJR22_6
Summary: Drake comes to terms with his feelings for Launchpad.
Relationships: Drake Mallard/Launchpad McQuack
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	Immeasurable, Incalculable, Unbounded Love

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again! Here’s some fluff of my favorite couple for Valentines.
> 
> This piece was originally my entry to the now-cancelled drakepad zine, so it’s a little different from my others, namely the POV. I wanted to experiment with doing a second-person story, and I thought Drake would be a good one to do because I’ve worked with his character so much.
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated if you enjoy this fic!

It’s after patrol, and the house is quiet. Gos has been asleep for hours, and it’s long past the time you usually lie down, too. Plus, you took a really nasty hit tonight, and your leg is on _fire_ , but instead of resting you’re pacing a hole in the carpet of your bedroom with the lights off, biting your beak and pulling at your feathers. If you were any semblance of smart you’d just settle down and breathe deeply, until your heartbeat slows.

But you’ve never been one for good choices—if you were, maybe you wouldn’t be doing this now.

He was standing beside the Ratcatcher tonight, and staring up at the sky. You’d parked on the city limits for a stakeout, and the sky was so beautifully clear. He was picking constellations out of the sky, just killing time, but the stars’ reflections were caught in his eyes. They sparkled like gemstones, only more precious than any material possession could be to you.

He didn’t notice your beak caught halfway open, luckily, or maybe he did and pretended not to. Either way you sat there for far too long because the sight of him so at ease caught you by surprise. He was just leaning back, his arms crossed over his broad chest, and smiling lightly, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. It did something to your chest, stole away your ability to breathe, and you couldn’t even move for a minute.

You’ve been thinking about it for almost an hour, but you’re still not sure why he made you feel this way. As you think, you’re walking in a u-shape around the end of your bed. Your leg is probably going to be bruised all over in the morning, and it hurts enough to make you clench your teeth, but you’ve got too much in your head to sit still. It’s six steps from one side of the bed to the other, and the only space you’ve got, but it’s enough. Or, well, it has to be. You don’t want to wake anyone and you especially don’t want anyone to ask you if you’re okay.

You are not okay.

You pull at your feathers, and try to focus on that sensation rather than the rushing rapids of your oncoming panic attack. It’s indecipherable, this feeling you're fighting. You’ve been working together for longer than you care to count, from adopting Gos to crime fighting, and he’s been by your side every night, no matter the stakes. So why does looking at him keep making your hands sweat and your breath catch in your throat? Why does his laughter fill you with the warmth of a summer sun, regardless of how cold the nights get?

And then there’s this sinking feeling in your chest because you realize, despite your semi-subconscious efforts to keep yourself from doing so, that you, hero to the city and to the little girl in the bedroom down the hall, have irrevocably, undeniably, totally and completely fallen, and you don’t have a parachute.

You have no _idea_ what to do with that firework of blended delight and anxiety that’s shooting from your heart up to your head. You can hardly breathe with it in the way, overwhelmed by the rushing rapids of the river of your own mind. You can’t fall in love. He’d get hurt, and the only one who deserves the pain is you. And yet... not only does he go out into the city with you every night, not taking no for an answer, but he makes you feel like you’ve been living a lie. That maybe, after all these years, what you really deserve is tenderness.

It’s too much. Your face is getting hot with how little air you’re getting. You stumble blindly through the door, and because you’re focused on the stream of _I can’t do this—I can’t be feeling this—it’s not real,_ you don’t realize what you’re doing.

It’s only when your feet touch down onto cooler carpet than the hallway that your senses snap back into place. When blinded by panic, overwhelmed and emotional, who did you run to? 

All you _want_ is him. His comforting hands, caressing your cheek feathers. His voice, like a rumbling motor, talking you down. His heartbeat, like thunder when you rest your head on his chest. Being held in his arms, the only place in the world you feel safe enough to truly _rest_.

All you want is the love of one Launchpad McQuack.

He’s lying in bed when you enter, but he’s got a little airplane-shaped nightlight he keeps on, and in the pale light of it you can see he notices you. You start to say something, anything, but the panic’s ramping up, and your head is getting foggy.

“LP I—I need—er—well, I….”

“Drake?”

His voice is clear enough you can tell you didn’t wake him, but you can also tell that you’re causing him concern. Which sucks, a lot, and you grab a fistful of your shirt to keep your hands from shaking. Your cheeks burn as you stumble over yourself, but somehow, he’s got you.

Just like always.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He pushes the covers aside, and sits up. “Just take a deep breath. I gotcha.”

“Launchpad,” your voice cracks. The room is swaying, or maybe your balance is off because of how badly your head is spinning. Either way, you’re scrambling to pull yourself together, and it’s not going well for you.

“Hey.” All of a sudden he’s in front of you, kneeling down so you don’t have to look up at him. “It’s okay. You don’t need to say anything.”

You can’t tell if he understands why you’ve come barging in at such a late hour. You _can_ tell, however, that he wants you to be okay. You can tell that his ever-beautiful eyes, looking you over with concern, are focused entirely on making you feel better. You can tell he wants to help, and is just waiting to figure out how. You don’t deserve him.

You’re not sure what to do. Or say. Or anything, really. How do people handle being in love? What are your options here, even? Can you make a logical plan, or at least explain yourself? It’s a little too late to fight this fire now but can you make up an excuse for why you’re burning up? Do you even want to?

He takes your hands in his, and his gaze is full of tenderness. A great monster made of yearning, trapped within your chest alongside the butterflies, rears its head and roars. For all you are as a hero, this is one battle you aren’t meant to fight.

“I—I didn’t want to admit it,” you whisper as every wall you’ve ever built up crumbles, all in this single moment. “But I… I was just trying to keep myself from getting hurt… and I don’t want…. I don’t want to hurt you because I’m too afraid to tell you how I feel.”

“You… Drake?” His head tilts to the side. A little confused, because of course he is. That’s part of his charm, and it’s part of the ever-growing list of reasons you can no longer deny your own feelings.

“I love you.”

Everything is silent.

Everything is still.

Everything feels frozen in time, except for your heart, beating loud enough you think maybe even the Muddlefoots next door can hear your unspoken plea of _please say you want me too._

The little light in the corner isn’t giving you much to see by, but you can see his smile, and somehow that’s enough to make you feel like your unplanned confession was long overdue. He puts a hand to your cheek ever-so-gently, and in the softest of whispers, delivers his reply.

“I love you more.”

You feel the tears welling up, but they’re brilliantly happy ones, and they don’t seem worth fighting. So you don’t. You let yourself go, just for this moment, and start crying. Everything is happening so fast and there’s so _much_ and the only bit of it you can manage to focus on is the way he says it.

As if he’s been waiting to say it just so he could say it second.

“You’re such a dork.” You let out a weak little laugh.

“I’m a dork, and—and you still love me,” he laughs too, as if in disbelief. Which you understand, you _totally_ understand. Twenty minutes ago you didn’t even realize you were in love with your best friend and now you’re here and _he loves you more._

You fall into him, throwing your arms around his neck. If you hold him tight enough it hurts, maybe this will start to sink in. Right now it just doesn’t feel real.

“Yeah. I do.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, and it feels perfect. Like he’s the last puzzle piece that makes your life complete. That sense of belonging is new and frightening and absolutely wonderful all at once. It’s nice, if only you can get through the _falling_ part of falling in love.

“LP, I love you _most_.”


End file.
